


A Miserable Day in England

by totalizzyness



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, country-bashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totalizzyness/pseuds/totalizzyness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur hates working jobs in England, because he hates England. And he hates the English too. Or maybe... not all of the English.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Miserable Day in England

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [classic-joegolev](http://classic-joegolev.tumblr.com/), all remaining mistakes are my own.

Arthur hated working jobs in England. It was a miserable country full of miserable people. It rained 300 days of the year and was just miserably dull the other 65. It didn't matter England was the birth-place of Shakespeare and The Beatles. It was a rotten country. He didn't care for their tea, their monarchy, or their eccentricities. He didn't care that its capital was full of beautiful architecture, or that their countrysides were green and breath-taking. Because every time he worked a job in England, everything went wrong.

The Banks Job was no different.

It started the same as every other English job; he slept through his alarm. It only ever happened in England, mind you. He was punctual in every other country. Except fucking England. Waking up ten minutes after he was already supposed to be at the warehouse, Arthur dove out if bed and into the shower, not allowing himself time for the water to heat up, just quickly washing his body and hair. He didn't even have time to shave; he threw on yesterday's suit and slicked his hair back messily, grabbing his jacket and bag as he rushed out of the hotel.

For once it wasn't actually raining in miserable old England. The streets were, however, wet from the night's shower, puddles formed in the shallow craters of the sidewalk and asphalt, and the sky was almost black. It wasn't raining now, but Arthur had no doubt that it would be soon. He would probably get drenched if he didn't get a move on. Already stressed because of his late start, Arthur didn't notice the large, ominous puddle at the road-side as he waited at the crossing. A few feet to his left stood a mother and young boy, the mother explaining to her son that he had to wait for the green man before he could cross. The green man, however, was taking his sweet-ass time. There were no cars that he could see, but the light stuck stubbornly on the red man. Just as the traffic lights began to change from green to amber, a white van sped to make it before it turned red, driving straight through the huge puddle, sending a wave of murky water in Arthur’s direction, soaking him. Arthur could hear the little boy giggling, his mother hushing him as he tried to comprehend what had just happened.

“Son of a bitch!”

The mother tutted loudly, scowling at Arthur as she grabbed her son’s hand and marched them across the road. Arthur rolled his eyes, too annoyed already to put up with snooty mothers, hurrying across the road himself before the lights changed. He continued on to the warehouse, his wet slacks sticking to his legs, his feet squelching uncomfortably in his shoes every step he took. The cold English air blew around him and through him, chilling him to the bone. His hands were quickly turning blue, his teeth chattering as he marched valiantly onwards.

He finally made it to the warehouse, pushing the door open and stomping towards his desk, with no intention to greet anyone. Unfortunately, Arthur’s memo about not talking to him that morning hadn’t reached some people.

“Arthur! You look positively debauched! Have a good night, did we, darling?”

Eames. Arthur’s least favourite English export. Mainly because it could walk and talk, and followed Arthur around like a lost puppy. A really annoying, immature, arrogant, English puppy. Instead of responding, Arthur shot Eames his deadliest warning glare and dumped his bag on his chair, marching on to the kitchenette. There was only one working radiator in the entire warehouse, in the kitchenette, where Cobb was currently brooding. He looked up and narrowed his eyes when he saw Arthur approaching, folding his arms across his chest.

“You’re late.”

Arthur sighed loudly, slipping off his wet jacket. “I know.”

“We have a lot of work today, Arthur, we can’t afford to be wasting time.”

“I wasn’t wasting time, I missed my alarm.”

“And then went puddle-jumping?”

“Some dick in a van splashed me at the lights.”

Cobb shook his head, not buying Arthur’s excuse. “Just hurry up. This is an important job.”

Arthur glared at the floor as he slipped his shoes off, listening to Cobb huff and march off back in to the main area. He draped his jacket over the radiator, lining his soaked shoes underneath, hoping they’d get dry by at least midday; it was freezing in the warehouse and he didn’t want to sit in wet clothes all day. He was so busy grumbling to himself, Arthur didn’t hear another pair of footsteps approaching, didn’t notice the forger smirk and lean against the doorframe.

“Ignore Cobb. Something’s crawled up his arse and died this morning. Need a change of clothes?”

Arthur’s lips thinned. “No, thank you.”

“You sure, pet? It’s bloody freezing, you can’t sit around in wet clothes all day, you’ll catch pneumonia or something.”

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

Eames huffed, folding his arms across his chest like an unamused parent. “Arthur. Stop being stubborn. I have spare clothes.”

Arthur scoffed, finally looking up and meeting the Englishman’s gaze. “You want me to wear your clothes? One, they won’t fit. And two, I wouldn’t be caught dead in the garish fabrics you wear!”

Eames rolled his eyes. “Three, you’re a stubborn prat who’d rather catch a cold than accept an offer of warm, dry clothes. Suit yourself, Arthur. Only trying to be nice.”

Arthur pulled a face at Eames’ retreating back. Sure, it was childish, and Eames was only being nice, but Arthur was too worked up to deal with anything. He instantly regretted his decision to sneer at Eames’ offer once he sat at his desk, his wet shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back, raising goosebumps all over his skin. His feet were bare, his socks draped on the radiator to dry; his teeth began chattering as his computer booted up, his hands shivering, making it difficult to type in the password. Across the work-space, Cobb was sat at his desk drawing out map designs, a scowl permanently etched in to his face. Just to his left, behind him, Eames was sat at his desk reading reports on the mark’s brother-in-law and best friend. Whilst he waited for his files to download themselves, Arthur padded back to the kitchenette, hoping a warm drink would help ease away the chill. After rooting through the cupboards for a good five minutes, and coming up empty-handed, Eames cleared his throat casually behind him.

“We’re out of coffee. Cobb finished it off this morning. Just tea left.”

Arthur growled quietly. “I hate tea.”

Eames chuckled. “You Bostonians are all the same. Our tea’s never good enough for you, is it.”

Arthur spun around, narrowing his eyes at the Brit. “Excuse me?”

“...You know? Boston Tea Party? Where you dumped all our tea in the harbour? Your country’s history? Ringing any bells?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Eames frowned. “Are you okay, Arthur?”

“No. I’m already having an extremely shitty day, and it’s only... nine thirty-four,” Arthur snapped, checking his watch. Eames gave him pitying look and Arthur scowled, barging past Eames and back to his desk. His files had downloaded, so he dove straight in to work, his teeth still chattering. After ten minutes of muttering every time he had to delete a mistake because of his shivering, a warm jacket was suddenly draped over his shoulders. When Arthur looked back over his shoulder, Eames was smiling meekly.

“There’s no use in making yourself ill because of your pride. And there, black jacket. No offensive colours or patterns to be seen.”

Arthur smiled back sheepishly, pulling the jacket tighter around him. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, darling.”

They shared a look before Eames retreated back to his desk. Arthur spent a whole ten seconds contemplating the look, which was eight seconds longer than he usually contemplated anything that had to do with Eames. He shook the thought from his head and turned back to his work. The jacket helped more than Arthur thought it would have, keeping his torso warm, slowly spreading warmth to his extremities. He worked furiously, making up for the lost time from his late wake-up, typing away furiously at his keyboard, creating new files and documents for Cobb to read, and researching in to the marks background - he went as far back as his great-grandparents to get the team as much information as possible. However, after ninety minutes, without his morning caffeine fix, Arthur found himself getting tired very quickly. The intervals between his yawns became shorter and shorter until he found himself yawning more than typing. It didn’t go unnoticed by either of his team-mates. Cobb scowled at him, as if Arthur was yawning on purpose. Arthur, already tired and grouchy from a bad day quickly grew tired of his boss’ chiding looks.

“What?” he barked.

Cobb’s glare intensified. “Get working. Stop yawning.”

Arthur glared back. “I can’t help it! I’m tired!”

“So drink some coffee.”

“I would, but you drank it all!”

“Go get some!”

“You’re letting me leave the warehouse? I thought I had loads of work to do.”

“If it’ll make you do more work than yawning, by all means, go get yourself a fucking coffee!”

Eames sat watching the childish argument between the two men, somewhat bemused, wondering if he should jump in to Arthur’s rescue.

“You have some serious fucking attitude today, Cobb,” Arthur spat, going in to his bag.

“Fuck you, Arthur. For once I’d like for us to get some fucking work done!”

“We always get the fucking work done! Oh, excuse me, I get all the fucking work done! Me! I fucking do it all!”

Eames grimaced, not liking the new level of ferocity between his team-mates. “Guys, this isn’t a competition to see who can use the eff-word the most.”

His comment went unheard as Arthur and Cobb continued to shout.

“And what do you think I fucking do all fucking day?! Sit around and play fucking solitaire?!”

“How the fuck should I know?! I sit here doing all the fucking work!”

“I build the fucking dreams! I’m here creating complex fucking mazes so we can get the fucking job done!”

“Well excuse the fuck out of me, your royal fucking highness!”

Eames finally had enough, marching in to the space between the two desks, raising his hands to both men, effectively shutting them up. “You two need to calm down. Right now. I had no idea ‘fuck’ could be said so many times. We need a swear-box around here.”

Arthur and Cobb both rolled their eyes, turning away from the Englishman. Arthur continued rummaging through his bag, getting visibly angrier as he searched.

“Arthur, go get a coffee and calm down.”

Arthur bristled at Eames’ words, kicking his bag forcefully back under his desk, his eyes flaring with rage. “I would, except I’ve forgotten my fucking wallet! Jesus, this day just goes from bad to worse.”

Eames sighed. “Would you like me to-”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll deal.”

“Are you sure? Because it doesn’t look like you’re dealing to me.”

“I said, I’ll deal.”

“We need a bloody naughty-step around here... You two, don’t say a word to each other! Or else, God help me, I’ll bang your heads together.”

Cobb sneered at Eames’ back, sending a quick glare at Arthur before continuing with his work. Arthur ignored the glare, getting back to his own work, the explosive argument having woken him up a little. He focused intensely on his work, getting all the information he needed on the mark’s boss, writing his findings in a report. His focus was broken when a long, drawn-out yawn snuck up on him, his eyes watering as his lungs tried to fill with air. When he opened his eyes he was met with Eames’ warm smile, an umbrella hooked at his elbow, a cup of coffee in one hand, and a packet of instant coffee in the other. Arthur was momentarily shocked by Eames’ sudden act of kindness, gaping at him stupidly as the coffee was placed in front of him.

“Can’t have our point man falling asleep on the job, can we,” Eames chuckled, casually shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Arthur’s brain finally rebooted; he pulled the warm drink closer to his chest.

“Um. Uh... thanks. I guess. Yeah.”

Eames’ smile flourished, his crooked teeth on show. “You’re welcome, Arthur.”

The two men shared another look, this one lasting longer than the previous. Eames gave Arthur another quick grin and wandered back over to his desk, shaking the remaining rain-drops from his umbrella before propping it up against his desk. Arthur watched the forger pick up the file he’d been studying all morning, mentally noting how easily he relaxed in his chair like he was at home -- wherever home for Eames was -- and reading a nice novel instead of a personal file on someone he was going to impersonate in a dream. He didn’t realise he’d been staring until Eames glanced up from over his file, shooting a quick smirk at Arthur. Arthur flushed and turned back to his computer, glancing down at the coffee in front of him. He pulled the cup to his lips, inhaling the beautiful scent of fresh coffee before taking a sip. He could feel the warm liquid trickle down his throat, warming him from the inside out as he thought that maybe England wasn’t so bad, really. He allowed his lips to twitch up in to a small smile, taking another sip of his drink and reaching down to his bag.

After rooting through it for a good five minutes and not finding his cigarettes, he changed his mind. England was still a shitty country. People said boot instead of trunk, and when they said pants they didn’t mean pants at all, they meant underwear. And he’d forgotten his stupid cigarettes because he’d slept through his stupid alarm because of the stupid curse of this stupid country.

Frowning, and suddenly desperately needing his nicotine fix, Arthur went back to work, even more on edge. The next person to talk to him would probably have their head bitten off. Especially if said person had a stupid English accent. He didn’t need reminding he was in the worst country in the world. As the minutes ticked by, Arthur got more and more antsy. The coffee was strong and just got him more worked up. An hour passed in which Arthur worked undisturbed; fortunately, no one had to strike up a conversation with him. He was still shaking, however, but from frayed nerves instead of the cold. He was fidgeting in his seat, his entire body trembling. He jumped a mile into the air when a heavy hand curled around his shoulder.

"Arthur-"

"Don't touch me!"

Eames jerked his hand away, frowning at the way Arthur still shook nervously. Arthur turned in his seat to look at the bigger man, his eye twitching. Eames' face fell.

"Are you all right?"

"No! I am not all-fucking-right! I'm hopped up on this caffeine shot you bought me and I need a cig but I forgot them! And now I'm going crazy!"

"I'm sorry-"

"Don't apologise! All you English do is apologise! You'd think you were Canadian or something!"

Eames pouted his lips, his eyes running over Arthur's twitchy body. "Would you like me to get you some fags, then? I was going on a lunch run anyway..."

"I don't need your charity, Eames. I'm just having a shit day, you don't need to baby me!"

"I seriously hope offering to buy cigarettes for someone isn't considered babying behaviour. Just let me help you, Arthur. I don't like seeing you like this."

"I don't want your pity either."

Eames sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Must you be so difficult, Arthur? I'm nothing but lovely to you, and all I receive in return is your condescension and your snark. I didn't have to buy you coffee, or give you my jacket, or step in between your little domestic with Cobb, but I did! And I like to hope you'd do the same for me if I was having a bad day. But I know you wouldn't, because of your stupid American superiority complex that makes you think you're so above an Englishman like me.

"I know what you think of me, Arthur. And I don't know what I can do to change your opinion. I don't think there's anything I can do. You hate my country, and you hate me, and I think I've stopped caring now.

"Just... Fuck you, Arthur."

Arthur watched with wide eyes as Eames marched away, his shoulder stiff, his hands shoved dejectedly in his pockets. He felt more shit now than he had all day. Eames _had_ been nice to him. He was _always_ nice to him, even though all Arthur did was sneer at him. He looked around and suddenly met Cobb's eyes, a scowl still marring his face.

"You're a real dick sometimes, Arthur."

Arthur had lost his bite after Eames' telling off; he sighed and dropped his head to his hand. "I know. Fuck."

"When he gets back, apologise."

"I will."

"I'm serious. No shitty half-assed Arthur apology. Tell him you're sorry, and mean it."

"Okay! Jeez!"

Arthur pulled himself from his seat, wandering through to the kitchenette. His socks had dried, and he noticed his shoes had been stuffed with newspaper. He couldn't stop the small smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth knowing it had been Eames. The Brit had been the only person to go in to the kitchenette that morning, and Cobb wasn't the sort of person to stuff his shoes, bad mood or not. He thought up ways to possibly make it up to Eames. He had years of mean behaviour to make up for. He wondered if Hallmark made "I'm sorry I'm such an insufferable prick" cards. He stood by the window that sat above the sink, watching fat droplets of water hit the glass, wondering if Eames had remembered to take his umbrella. His mind wandered, losing all notions of time until Cobb cleared his throat behind him.

"Have a good think?"

Arthur turned to face his boss, chewing on his bottom lip absent-mindedly. "Uh..."

"Eames is back. He bought you lunch. And some cigs,” he said pointedly. “Now apologise!"

Arthur nodded, rubbing a hand over his face and looked out to the desks. Eames was sat at his desk, his back turned to Arthur, a white wrapped parcel sitting on his desk by his elbow. Arthur noticed he had an identical parcel on his desk, as did Cobb.

"What's he bought?"

"Chips... Fries. Whatever."

Nodding again, Arthur held his head high and walked over to Eames, making a beeline for his desk to grab his food. He knew Eames knew he was behind him, and he knew he deserved to be ignored. He cleared his throat, hoping Eames would turn around. He didn't. Arthur sighed, running a nervous hand through his hair.

"Eames... Eames, I'm sorry. I'm a dick, I know, and you don't deserve the way I treat you, and... I have no excuse and I don't really expect you to forgive me. But, just know, I don't hate you. Honestly. You're just... an easy guy to dislike, I guess, and I sort of took that opportunity day one and haven't really grown up. I'm acting like I'm in high school, and I'm ashamed of my behaviour. I really am. I just... could you maybe see it in your heart to-"

"I forgive you."

Arthur opened and shut his mouth several times, words lodged in his throat. "Uh... what?"

"I forgive you, Arthur. You're a right twat a lot of the time, but that's who you are. You'd probably warm to me better if I didn't take the piss so much. And besides, we Englishmen are a noble breed. We don't hold silly grudges."

Eames finally turned to look at Arthur, a hint of a smile on his lips. Arthur smiled shyly, feeling his cheeks burning.

"Thanks. For... everything. For... the coffee, and the cigs, and for stuffing my fucking shoes so they dry quicker. For... putting up with me when I'm a dick."

"You're welcome, darling."

Arthur smiled awkwardly, focusing his eyes on the warm food in his hands. "Um, well... I'm going to go eat my lunch." He began taking a slow step backwards, feeling Eames' stare on him. "Thanks, for this. Y'know... um... I'll be at my desk..."

Eames chuckled. "And I'll be here. Holler if you need me."

Arthur spun on his heel, feeling his cheeks prickle with heat from embarrassment, hurrying to his seat and collapsing down. He glanced over to the kitchenette, noticing Cobb smirking at him. His day definitely seemed to be getting better; bridges were being built with Eames and Cobb was no longer in a foul mood. He ate his chips contentedly, typing lazily with one hand, his need for nicotine waining as he felt his earlier stress ebb away. He was finally content for the first time that day. His clothes had dried, he was finally warm(ish), and it was nice and quiet. Arthur knew he should have suspected foul play from the people in charge of cosmic justice.

He was typing up information on the mark's sister when the screen froze. He frowned, pressing 'ctrl', 'alt', 'delete', repeating this when nothing happened. He sat up straight in his seat, pressing the keys furiously, but to no avail. His computer had crashed again, for the fifth time that week. Deciding he'd finally had enough of the piece of junk of a computer, he jumped to his feet, sending his chair careening backwards. He pulled his gun from the top draw of his desk and fired three shots in to the monitor. Cobb and Eames stopped what they were doing, staring in horror at Arthur, his gun aimed at the computer, a murderous look on his face. Neither man said a word.

"Fucking piece of shit computer."

Arthur silently grabbed his things, marching to the kitchenette to pull on his shoes and finally swap his jacket before storming out of the warehouse. He stood underneath the cover in front of the door, unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, glaring at the rain and patting down his chest for a lighter. Busy grumbling about the shitty weather, Arthur didn't hear Eames jogging up behind him, jumping when an umbrella popped open in front of him. Eames grinned, holding out the umbrella and pulling his lighter from his jacket pocket.

"It's really pouring, darling. Wish to share an umbrella back to the hotel?"

Arthur smiled, leaning forward to light his cigarette on the flame Eames was offering. "Won't Cobb get pissy you're cutting out early?"

Eames smirked, quickly lighting his own cigarette. "Cobb can kiss my arse. I prioritise my colleagues' mental well-being over the job."

"My mental well-being? What are your plans to keep me sane?"

"Well..." Eames slung his arm over Arthur's shoulders, pulling him closer underneath the umbrella before taking the first step out in to the rain. "I thought we could get wankered from the hotel mini-bar and order in some Indian."

Arthur smirked, burrowing closer to Eames, telling himself it was so they'd fit better underneath the umbrella, but enjoying the warmth of Eames at his side. "Sounds good to me."

**Author's Note:**

> Should I put a note to say Arthur's views on England do not correspond with my own views?


End file.
